Blue Skies Prompt #4, Débutante (Downton Abbey)
Title: Débutante
Author: mrstater
Prompt: #4, "If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance."
(Bern Williams)
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sybil Crawley, Sir Robert, Lady Cora, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley; slight Tom Branson/Sybil Crawley
Rating & Warnings: rated G
Word Count: 719
Summary: The Crawley family share a moment before Sybil makes her social début.
Descending the staircase of the London house, Sybil is too busy minding the shawl draped over her elbows and the trailing hem of her gown to notice the looks of the group assembled in the foyer until her mother exclaims, "Oh, Sybil!"
She looks up, then, flushed and smiling as her parents meet her at the foot of the stairs; they crowd so close that she must remain atop the first step, as if standing on a pedestal to be admired.
"Darling," says Cora, "you look like you've stepped out of a Leighton painting." She sighs as she fingers the gauzy lace of the sleeve that just caps Sybil's shoulder. "Isn't she lovely, girls?"
"I, for one, was just praying she wouldn't come down wearing some sort of début ante bloomers," Edith says.
"Or a Votes for Women sash," Mary adds with a snigger.
"Let's not make light of Sybil's night," their mother gently chides, though Sybil is well enough accustomed to her elder sisters' ways to know that they only tease the ones they love. It's easier to believe that tonight, when her mother is looking her over with absolute approval, than it is at other times when they seem to tease the ones they don't love, as well.
"I expect you'll receive half a dozen proposals tonight, at the very least," Cora says.
"Really, Mama," Sybil says, aware of her sisters' eyes on her and of the heavy truth that neither of Edith's two seasons, nor Mary's four, have yielded a single proposal. "It's my début tonight."
"It's June, my dear," Cora persists, "and you're eighteen--the perfect season to dream of romance."
Robert hands Sybil down from the stairs, keeping hold of her fingers as he says, "You needn't feel obliged to accept a suitor at all, just yet, you know." His voice sounds strange and half-swallowed, as if he's got a bad throat. "I won't mind having you at home with me for a year longer…or ten."
"Good God," Mary mutters to Edith. "One big happy family for another decade. What more could a girl wish for when she comes of age?"
"Why bother with the season at all, with such joyous prospects before us?" Edith says.
"Really, girls--" Cora's exasperated admonishments are cut off when Robert reaches into his evening jacket and takes out a long, velvet jeweller's box.
"Papa," Sybil says as he opens it to reveal a strand of pearls with a pendant of amethyst and peridot. "It's exactly what I would have chosen for myself."
He cannot realise that purple and green are the colours favoured by suffragettes, or he would not look so pleased by her assessment. Or does he?
"I thought it might be," he says, and she catches a glimmer in his eyes before he steps around behind her to put the necklace on her.
Whatever that look means, it makes her want to fling her arms about his neck and hug him tightly as she did when she was a little girl, and promise she won't say anything too political tonight that might embarrass the Earl of Grantham. She does not, however, realising that her acceptance of her father's generous and thoughtful gift is as much his way of securing that promise as making peace with her for their row over her sneaking off to Ripon for the bi-election.
His hands linger for a moment on her shoulders after he has fastened the necklace, and she leans into his touch, enjoying the reassuring weight of his large hands. Then, with a light squeeze, his hands fall away, and he clears his throat. "If you're fashionably late enough, Sybil, shall we?"
"We shall, Papa."
Her beaming smile is all for her father as he guides her out of the house upon his arm, so that she never notices that she has made her first conquest of the season before she has even left the house.
Branson never once blinks as he watches her from his post holding the car door for the Crawley family. Lady Sybil is like a white rose in her gown of creamy silk, her skin flushed with happiness in the glow of the streetlamps like petals tinged with pink.
It's June, and she's eighteen--the perfect season for a chauffeur to dream of romance.
Author: mrstater
Prompt: #4, "If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance."
(Bern Williams)
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sybil Crawley, Sir Robert, Lady Cora, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley; slight Tom Branson/Sybil Crawley
Rating & Warnings: rated G
Word Count: 719
Summary: The Crawley family share a moment before Sybil makes her social début.
Descending the staircase of the London house, Sybil is too busy minding the shawl draped over her elbows and the trailing hem of her gown to notice the looks of the group assembled in the foyer until her mother exclaims, "Oh, Sybil!"
She looks up, then, flushed and smiling as her parents meet her at the foot of the stairs; they crowd so close that she must remain atop the first step, as if standing on a pedestal to be admired.
"Darling," says Cora, "you look like you've stepped out of a Leighton painting." She sighs as she fingers the gauzy lace of the sleeve that just caps Sybil's shoulder. "Isn't she lovely, girls?"
"I, for one, was just praying she wouldn't come down wearing some sort of début ante bloomers," Edith says.
"Or a Votes for Women sash," Mary adds with a snigger.
"Let's not make light of Sybil's night," their mother gently chides, though Sybil is well enough accustomed to her elder sisters' ways to know that they only tease the ones they love. It's easier to believe that tonight, when her mother is looking her over with absolute approval, than it is at other times when they seem to tease the ones they don't love, as well.
"I expect you'll receive half a dozen proposals tonight, at the very least," Cora says.
"Really, Mama," Sybil says, aware of her sisters' eyes on her and of the heavy truth that neither of Edith's two seasons, nor Mary's four, have yielded a single proposal. "It's my début tonight."
"It's June, my dear," Cora persists, "and you're eighteen--the perfect season to dream of romance."
Robert hands Sybil down from the stairs, keeping hold of her fingers as he says, "You needn't feel obliged to accept a suitor at all, just yet, you know." His voice sounds strange and half-swallowed, as if he's got a bad throat. "I won't mind having you at home with me for a year longer…or ten."
"Good God," Mary mutters to Edith. "One big happy family for another decade. What more could a girl wish for when she comes of age?"
"Why bother with the season at all, with such joyous prospects before us?" Edith says.
"Really, girls--" Cora's exasperated admonishments are cut off when Robert reaches into his evening jacket and takes out a long, velvet jeweller's box.
"Papa," Sybil says as he opens it to reveal a strand of pearls with a pendant of amethyst and peridot. "It's exactly what I would have chosen for myself."
He cannot realise that purple and green are the colours favoured by suffragettes, or he would not look so pleased by her assessment. Or does he?
"I thought it might be," he says, and she catches a glimmer in his eyes before he steps around behind her to put the necklace on her.
Whatever that look means, it makes her want to fling her arms about his neck and hug him tightly as she did when she was a little girl, and promise she won't say anything too political tonight that might embarrass the Earl of Grantham. She does not, however, realising that her acceptance of her father's generous and thoughtful gift is as much his way of securing that promise as making peace with her for their row over her sneaking off to Ripon for the bi-election.
His hands linger for a moment on her shoulders after he has fastened the necklace, and she leans into his touch, enjoying the reassuring weight of his large hands. Then, with a light squeeze, his hands fall away, and he clears his throat. "If you're fashionably late enough, Sybil, shall we?"
"We shall, Papa."
Her beaming smile is all for her father as he guides her out of the house upon his arm, so that she never notices that she has made her first conquest of the season before she has even left the house.
Branson never once blinks as he watches her from his post holding the car door for the Crawley family. Lady Sybil is like a white rose in her gown of creamy silk, her skin flushed with happiness in the glow of the streetlamps like petals tinged with pink.
It's June, and she's eighteen--the perfect season for a chauffeur to dream of romance.